Fires curled into an ashen sky, licking the skin of already long deceased soldiers. Their bodies had been mangled, grinded into a fine dust. Their blood spilled out over the stone roads, flowing south toward the ocean due to the island's natural slant. Buildings that had been felled slowly tumbled off the ridges into raging waters, meeting pointed rocks decorated with the gore of those attempting to flee.

"What do you see, Heathgrim…?" The elf muttered. His lips were dry, and tasted of blood each time his tongue glided over them. The rest of his body felt like a tuning fork, at a constant buzz. His nerves had never gotten the best of him, so why now? The human laid a hand on his shoulder, pulling them deeper out of view of the palace hall. It smelled of smoke. Soon they would be choked out by the fire, forced to leave their spot.

"Nothing. But the boats…" Heathgrim spoke quietly, his eyes jumping around. "Arethor, what of the boats?" He prodded the elf, turning him to look Heathgrim in the face. Both of their faces were splattered with blood, little of it being their own. The elf blinked wildly, and swallowed a lump in his throat. Shaking his head, he looked out of the closet door to see a man pass by. Or, what was supposed to resemble a man.

"Three, maybe four of them were down at the docks. They probably have burned them." Arethor stuttered, a hand pressing against the wall of the closet, brooms and mops leaning against him. Heathgrim adjusted himself, feeling naked without his armor. Why had they agreed to let themselves be disarmed?

"How far is the main-?"

"Don't be stupid, Heathgrim. That's a six mile swim through frigid water. We'd die." Arethor clenched his teeth, his grip tightening on a broomstick, the closest thing he had to a weapon. It had been a slaughter, on both sides. And even those who had been armed were torn asunder.

"We make for the docks, regardless. I won't just let us die here with these things." Heathgrim stood, sliding his hand between the doors and prying it open slightly. Arethor readied himself behind him, and watched as the Captain crept out into the hall. The elf quickly snapped the broomstick over his knee, and handed one of the jagged pieces to Heathgrim. He grunted at the wimpy excuse of a weapon, but took it with a grateful nod.

A jarring sound earned their attention, both twisting to look down the massive hall. Standing at the far end was a man in dim gray armor. It was split in several places, with a deep red fungus protruding from its cracks, strangling the man. It let out a vicious sound before throttling itself down the hallway.

Arethor awoke with a start. Gasping for air, he clutched the reins in his hands and shook his head. He'd grown used to the night terrors, and taught himself to quickly align himself to reality once he'd come to. Sometimes it didn't work, and he'd be left panting for several minutes struggling to figure out where he was. But luckily, this time, his horse Judas had acted as an excellent anchor to keep his mind at ease.

Sighing, he leaned forward and stroked the side of the horse's head, thanking him for his never ending service. Taking in a few deep breaths, he leaned back on his saddle and watched as the trees that arched overhead slowly fed him sunlight. They were pine. Which meant he was probably close to home. Most of the forests in Riverden leading up to the Marrow consisted of maple or some form of ironwood. His travels to Lightholde had been tainted with the sight of tumored trees. Their branches hanging low from the knots of death. It felt almost as if it were spreading. And he only hoped it stayed away from the Marrow Forest.

He smelled smoke, which was most likely why his dream had been so potent. He assumed it was coming from the cabins sprinkled around Tavernkeep, his home city and capital of Riverden. By no means a normal capital, living deep within a forest, surrounded by massive pine trees and redwoods. It provided the city with excellent natural cover. Though, it also blinded the city as well.

But Tavernkeep hadn't seen any major conflict in well over two hundred years. A fact that Arethor took great pride in to some degree.

"I apologize for that Ronck earlier, Judas." Arethor murmured to his horse. "If I had seen it, I would've said something." He recalled how the creature had dropped from a tree, startling Judas and nearly throwing Arethor to the ground. In fact, the entire reason for Arethors delay back to Tavernkeep was due to Judas having injured himself running from a cat. He was afraid he was going to have to put the poor horse down, but the stableman was quick to point out that Judas had only sprained his leg. So Arethor had opted to stay in the small town of Chiywod for an extra week to let Judas recover.

His horse still walked with a minor limp, and thus they took frequent breaks to allow Judas to gather himself. This of course tacked even more time onto their journey, which no doubt was concerning to his friend whom he'd left in charge of his Inn.

Arethor dug the massive bag of mushrooms from out of his satchel. It was his whole reason for the travels to Lightholde. It was a rare mushroom that only grew at the base of the Kyrala Mountains, which sat on the horizon of Lightholde. It was a tempermental mushroom, and often grew at different times of the year with no real pattern or reason. That meant he needed to wait until he heard word of them in the markets at Lightholde, where he'd need to drop everything to go and gather some.

He spent most of the year saving up to buy them in bulk, hoping it would be enough to maybe even outlive the next season. But he was not the only one who had taken a liking to their properties, and often had to bid high for even a small amount of them. This year, it seemed, he had been just in time to take that first offer, and had acquired quite an impressive amount of them.

Arethor used it as the key element for his most well renowned ale, the Remedy. Other taverns and Inns had tried to buy the recipe off him, but he'd never caved. Despite the amount of cryys they had waved in his face.

The Whine had been his pride and joy for the last two decades, and he wasn't going to give away its most special attribute that easily. It was the one thing he had truly made his own in the Inn that had been given to him those years ago. Or rather, it hadn't been given to him, but rudely dropped in his lap by his father who up and left one night.

First night terrors, and now he'd allowed himself to think about his damned father. Shaking his head, he blinked until the sleep in his eyes finally evaporated, and the road became clear. It began to widen as the city drew near. There were no signs to point in its direction, and the trail leading to Tavernkeep was almost nonexistent up until only a few miles away. Only a keen eye, or one with the proper knowledge, would know how to find the right path along the Splinted Road. That being the road that connected every major city and village all across Riverden. That is, until it ran into the Needle.

As the elf gently swayed with the motion of Judas' step, he allowed his body to relax almost completely. The air was still, though not cold. It felt as if he was in the middle of nothingness, with just the sounds of the earth settling to accompany him. Judas sighed softly as he flicked his head up. Arethor couldn't help but smile. Horses sometimes just fidgeted, kind of like humans. He had found ways to still himself, to let the energy pent up inside him slowly leak out through a series of low whistles and hums. It felt satisfying, like shedding the weight of clothing at the end of the day.

Putting the bag of mushrooms back in his satchel, he shut the flap gently and pulled tightly on the leather strap that kept it closed. The satchel was branded with the Oaken Sigil, having been given to him once he'd been branded Spymaster. What an idiotic choice it had been. Sometimes, King Orieths idiocy never ceased to amaze him. Regardless, Arethor used the satchel in his daily life outside of the Oak, Tavernkeeps Military.

He found it ironic they were called the Oak when there were so few Oak trees to be found near Tavernkeep. But the story went that hundreds of years ago the forest that surrounded them was once only Oak. No one knows how it turned into the pine haven it was then, but everyone respected the Oak that once breathed in the spot where they now walked.

After another hour of quiet travel, Arethor watched as the road widened once again and revealed a massive stone wall only a few yards away. Furthermore, an opened gate displayed a portcullis guarded by several Oaknights, with massive claymores laying against their shoulders.

The Oak used boiled leather as their main component for armor. Each Oaknight wore a forkbeard leather mask, which left their nose exposed as the mask dipped underneath it. Arethor had always hated to wear it, as it made his face feel warm and moist. But it certainly felt better than having a heavy metal helmet weighing his face down.

He recognized the two men, despite the masks, and approached them slowly. The stern, ever prepared look in their eyes seemed to wither once they realized who it was. The slightly shorter one, Bulrin, spoke up.

"Arethor! We were beginning to worry. Uthir spoke of sending out a search team, given all that's happened." Bulrin blinked rapidly as he looked behind Arethor. The forest was beginning to grow dark as the day came to an end. Perhaps he was just sleepy, but something the boy had said caught his ear.

"All that's happened?" Arethor raised a brow, tugging Judas to the side slightly so he could see the Oaknights face more clearly. Bulrin grew pale, his chin dipping down as he realized what he'd said. He hesitated for a moment, then looked up the city walls to the watchtower just beside the gates. Standing up at the top, was Uthir, the Gate Captain. He didn't wear his usual chipper, optimistic grin.

"Suppose I should leave it up to him to explain, sir." Bulrin fixed his posture, standing up right and gesturing to Uthir that the coast was clear. The Gate Captain then shouted a command to several of his men, who eagerly began raising the portcullis. Gears grinded, and the sound of squeaking could be heard all across the city if one listened hard enough.

Uthir waved down for Arethor to hurry along. Saying his goodbyes to the Oaknights, he kicked Judas into motion past the walls. He figured the Gate Captain would expect to meet him at the stables. As was usual when he had news to share, and so made way for it.

The town was silent, the Marya Road empty save for a few merchants scuttling about. The Marya Road ran straight through the center of the town, all the way up to the Oaken Palace Steps. The city itself was divided into six arches, three each on the north and south end. Each arch typically represented a specific purpose, though sometimes they blended together at points. The First and Second arches had two sides, while the third arch only had one, as its back was pressed against the walls of the city.

The stables had its place on the second arch of the south end, only a few blocks from the gates. Arethor bought his spot in the stables long ago, as it had once been his fathers until he disappeared. He tried to argue with the stablemen that it should've been passed down to him, but the bastards would do anything for a few cryys. Even exploiting a confused and angered veteran of the Oak.

The stablemen stood clear as Arethor led Judas inside, then to their stall. It was near the back, where several stalls were empty before his own. Not many people owned horses in Tavernkeep.

"Been keeping it nice and pretty for you, sir." One of the stablemen, Cutt said with a slight bow. He had a long wrinkled face, his white beard thin and unkempt. He was the nicer of the three who often lurked around the building. He had tried to talk down the others from hustling Arethor, but of course, they didn't care much for hearing the old man out. The elf smiled and nodded to the man, dismounting Judas and beginning to desaddle him.

"I hope you've been well, Cutt." Arethor said softly, placing the saddle on a stool he kept in the corner of the stall. His feet dragged through disregarded hay as he leaned against the stall door. The old man suddenly looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips and looking around the darkened stables. He then began to walk around and light the candles sticking from the sconces hanging from the wooden beams.

"Terrible times it has been, young sir." He nodded to himself, then sat down on a stool beside one of the lit candles. The old man slouched, licking his lips as his fingers toiled together.

"What is it I missed, exactly?" Arethor squinted. It felt like a hand had reached into his chest and begun squeezing his heart. It almost resembled homesickness, mixed with deep anxiety. Cutt stared at the wooden floorboards for a moment, taking several stuttered breaths in before running the back of his hand over his mouth.

"It was awful. There was an attack, young sir." Cutt sealed his lips, glancing at Arethor as he stepped away in surprise. His back gently tapped Judas' nose, who nudged him forward with a snort. It felt as if all the air from Arethors lungs had been stripped away, leaving him panting for a brief moment as his neck twitched. Shaking his head, he used the stall door to level himself.

"That is…" He stopped, struggling to gather the right words. "How?" Arethor managed, swallowing an aching wallow in his throat. Before the old man could respond, someone else entered the stables. His leather boots were loud against the floorboards, his Oaken Sigil embroidered helmet in hand.

"It's true. And from the inside, no less." He said, stopping at the center of the room.

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"Uthir…" Arethor started. "From within the Oak?"

"Not exactly." Uthir frowned, and gestured for Cutt to leave them. The old man bowed in respect to the both of them, and saw himself out. The Gate Captain took a seat where the stablemen had sat, and ran a gloved hand through his greasy slicked back black hair.

"They trickled in over the span of a few months. Posed as merchants, farmers, laborers and the sorts. There were no discerning features that connected them, so no flags were raised. Men, women, and a few children. One even had even been pregnant, and given birth in our hospital. She's dead." He stopped to adjust his sheathe, the handle of his blade pointing toward the ceiling.

"Who were they?"Arethor finally asked.

"Hard to say. We think cultists. They were raving about some relics, moon kings and such. Incomprehensible as far as we could tell. It was just over a week ago that they held up the Jorax Library. They killed two dozen people before Heathgrim and his men got in there." Uthir squeezed his hands together, the sound of leather squeaking. "A few of them are down in the Oaken Palace dungeons as we speak, though we haven't heard much up here."

The human shrugged and clenched his teeth. He wasn't one to hear much about what was going on deep in the palace to begin with. His duties required he be on the walls at any given point, and thus information regarding anything else was slow coming.

It all felt so unreal to Arethor. Nothing like this had happened to them even before the Rebirth. Before the Green War. Before Greyholde. They'd had armies at their gates, attempting to lay siege to them. But when in their territory, their enemies never stood a chance. And certainly not when Arethor was around.

"What was it they wanted again?" Arethor rubbed the bridge of his nose, setting his jaw.

"They called themselves the Ruiners of Mordd, and demanded we retrieve a relic from our archives beneath the Jorax. Naturally, no one knew what they were rambling about, which only seemed to infuriate them." Something he'd said made Arethor freeze. It must've been apparent, because Uthir stopped and stared. "Are you good, brother?" He probed.

"You said Mordd? As in Lo-eel Mordd of D'gyra?" Arethor blinked.

"I suppose I did. That mean something to you?"

"Most certainly. Surely it does for Orieth too, but I imagine he's dealing with it himself." Arethor let his shoulders drop. He'd hardly noticed they'd been hiked for so long, and his muscles were beginning to relax. He reminded himself that the deeper affairs of the Oak were no longer his problem. There was no point in troubling himself any further than making sure his city was safe. Still, shivers ran through him as he imagined the scene. Damnit. If only he'd been there. Would he have been much help?

"We could've used you." Uthir said suddenly, as if reading the elfs mind. He looked serious, though the statement seemed entirely unserious to him. Arethor scoffed, and palmed his face.

"I'd have been useless." He spoke honestly, or at least, what felt honest.

"Skills like yours don't just die off after a few years. It was your damn Art after all." Uthir chuckled, leaning forward, elbows pressing against his knees. The mention of his Art made him lightheaded. He hadn't wanted to think about it for a while now. The concept of one's Art was something deeper than just a skill someone was well adapted to. It was more ethereal. A purpose bestowed upon every living person. That when found, one would excel in said skill above all else if given proper care. Most people went their entire lives without finding their Art. Arethor had found his Art when he was only a young man.

"I haven't held a sword in two decades. Would've been a pitiful death." Arethor muttered, turning to look out the window in the stall. The sun had set, and lanterns had begun to light the streets in rows. He could smell the taverns from the next street over, all sorts of wonderful smells being carried down the roads. It reminded him of just how hungry he was.

"Malar would've seen this coming, somehow. He always did." Arethor added, kicking a cluster of hay across the stall. Uthir stood, his face suddenly stern again.

"Malar is gone. Orieths uncle was a great man, yes, but we will serve this king just as we did the former." Uthir always had an odd sense of loyalty toward Orieth, who objectively was much less a man than Malar ever had been.

His nephew did little to follow in his footsteps, and ruled Tavernkeep like a country rather than a city. "I can admit he has handled this…curiously. But I trust he knows something most of us don't. We have little room to question his methods, now do we?" Uthir raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. Arethor sucked on his teeth, and gave the man a pandering nod. He wasn't much in the mood for arguing with the Gate Captain.

"I'm assuming my Inn is in one piece?" Arethor said, stepping out of the stall before giving Judas one last pet.

"Ah, that I can not tell you. I haven't exactly had the time to grab a cup of ale as of recently." Uthir chewed on his lip as he rubbed the back of his head. "But the attack was contained in the library so I'm sure everything's fine." Arethor chuckled to himself.

"The attack wasn't what I meant."

Arethor had entrusted his Inn to his good friend Hemm many times over the past few years. Having taken in the boy himself, he'd taught him how to work the bar since Arethor had left the Oak. Still, despite the boy's incredible knack for barkeeping, he had his flaws. Hemm often indulged in the ale as much as the patrons themselves, and by the end of the night would be too inebriated to serve anyone.

Arethor wanted to be mad at him, but he couldn't ignore that it often riled up the patrons so much that they'd end up buying twice as much ale. It wasn't exactly a sound practice, so he made Hemm promise he wouldn't do it whenever he was away. And though Hemm swore he wouldn't, Arethor had a hard time believing him.

As Arethor rounded the Second Arch of the South End, which was home to most Inns and Taverns, he saw several people standing around on the streets. It was the first hint of life he'd seen since he'd entered Tavernkeep. He recognized most of them as his regulars at his tavern, and quickly approached them. Their faces seemed to light up one by one as he approached.

"Arethor! Good sir, you've made it home." Ritlan shouted with open arms, embracing the elf with several slaps to his back. Standing next to him was Lordley, a taller blonde woman with a muscular frame. More so than Ritlan, who was just a few inches under her. But as a Mylian, much like Hemm, he had a natural height disadvantage.

"I have, and apparently not in time." Arethor pulled himself free, patting his shoulder.

"Ah, yes. Ironically enough we were here!" Ritlan turned to point at the sign that hung over the Inn. 'The Whine' was carved into it with exquisite detail. His father had it done decades ago by the finest carpenter in Wof'lawn.

"Bloody mess it all was. Your friend in there had us all locked inside!" Lordley scoffed, crossing her arms. Arethor couldn't help but laugh at this. His friend had actually done what he'd asked. Arethor had warned Hemm if there was ever an attack that he should lock everyone in and take them to the cellar.

"Oh, and also, your sister's here, also a bleedin' mess." Lordely added with a roll of her eyes. The news once again brought upon a set of chills. It had been almost a year since he'd last seen his sister, so quickly he pushed past the two and into the Whine.

He was met with a wall of warmth. The fireplace in the far right side of the room glowed in the darkness of the Inn. Several patrons sat around on stools and benches and talked softly within the warmth of the fire. Arethor blinked as his eyes seemed to dry, and looked to the bar. He heard as the two regulars entered behind him, the door swinging shut.

"Master!" A young man said as he appeared from the kitchen. Smoke poured out of the doorway behind him., with the young mylian wafting it away. His apron was a mess of spilt food and random juices and sauces. His short black hair accompanied his dark blue skin, which was also smeared with food. And somehow, Hemm was missing one of his front teeth. This had not been like this before he'd left.

Arethor ran over to his friend and grabbed him by the face, pulling his mouth open to better look at his teeth. Hemm was like a son to Arethor, having practically raised him in his tavern since his father had left. It was strange, being hundreds of years older than everyone around him. Watching people grow, feeling like everything was passing him by.

"Who did this?" Arethor demanded, his eyes frantic. The mylian laughed as he smacked the elfs hand away.

"I did this. I ran into a bleedin' carriage trying to stop some ol' lady from getting trampled!" Hemm prodded at the empty gap between his teeth, and winced at the sharp pain. Arethor flicked the mylian in the forehead and ruffled his hair. Hemm grabbed at his hands and pushed him away again with a scoff.

"What a hero. Now, how's my Inn been?" Arethor looked out over the crowd once again. Split mugs and tossed plates decorated the ancient wooden benches and tables. Patrons laughed and hugged, sharing stories loudly and quietly between indulgence of their ale and food. Arethor felt a tang of guilt for having left Hemm to deal with cooking and serving ale. But the young mylian insisted he enjoyed the thrill of it all.

"Other than pissing off a few of the regulars for keeping them in during the attack, business has been steady. The few days after it all were slow, naturally, but people are warming up again." Hemm took off his apron and hung it on the hook beside the kitchen door. Despite the decent crowd the tavern still felt like a dimly lit candle, flickering with little to no life, at least, not as much as it often did. Arethor cared more or less about the money coming in, as he had been set for life after his service for the Oak. It was more so the feeling of comradery that came with the customers that he sought. A peaceful service that he could provide for the people he loved. For the city he loved.

"You did good, Hemm. Surprisingly so." The elf poured himself a drink of his own Remedy. Gently he grinded the dried mushroom and dropped some of it into his drink. The effects of the cool beverage took hold of his throat almost immediately. Gliding down his body, he felt his muscles begin to relax and his swelling mind ease. Hemm scoffed, and rubbed his nose with a damp towel.

"Ya say that like I've ever done you wrong." The mylian tilted his head away as if upset, but Arethor saw his cheeky grin and chuckled. The boy had managed to start fights several times, somehow never with him actually being involved, but rather, watching from afar with a distant satisfaction.

"Of course not. Now, where is my sister?" Arethor recalled why he had barged into the Inn with such haste. Hemms face went blank for a moment, as if he'd never even heard of Arethors sister before, but after a few absent blinks he perked up.

"Ah, yes, she's up in her room. Or, whatever used to be her room." He pointed to the stairs with the wave of his youthful fingers. Arethor thanked him and headed toward the upper area of the Inn that acted as his home and the rooms for patrons. Going up a few steps then taking a right turn, he couldn’t help but notice the stairs were just as loud as they'd always been. It was impossible for anyone to go up or down without someone hearing. Perhaps even from the next building over. Arethor had spent the better half of a fortune trying to fix it, but the carpenters insisted they'd need to use a different wood. But Arethor simply refused to change any aspect of the Inn. If his father ever returned, he would rather he not come back to a different home.

Arethor had left his sister's room the exact way it was before she'd left for the Mission. He was tempted to change it, sure, but he realized she wouldn't be gone forever, and the thought of her moving away made him rather sad. She was the only family he had left, and he intended on keeping her around at least until she got married. Though, given her track record, marriage didn't seem likely for her anytime soon.

Knocking gingerly on her door, it took not but a second for it to swing wide open. Standing there was of course his one and only younger sister, Amber. Her hair was pulled up into a messy brown bun, and her raggedy nightgown looked more like a potato sack than anything else. Her face was flush, as she had clearly been scrubbing it hard in the bath. That and several small scratches on her face told a story all in itself. It was clear she had run through a forest, or somewhere thick with vegetation, and it had cut her up.

Grabbing her by the face, he ran his thumb over the tender wounds, to which she understandably flinched.

"Acting a fool again, Amber?" Arethor squinted as he looked at the cuts. They were practically already scabbing over, and were likely not at risk of getting infected. That was the number one killer of most men, simple cuts and scratches going unkempt from stubbornness or naivety. The young elf -well, young in terms of an Elder, being only seventy years old herself- scowled and swatted his hand away. Hemm and Amber often acted one in the same.

"I suppose I am the fool in all of this, considering I ran all this way only to hear you were missing." She pushed Arethor with a surprising burst of strength, sending him a few steps back into the hall where she trailed out and pointed a finger at his chest. "You picked the mightiest of times to wander around the glades of Riverden! They could've used you here, y'know that?" The words pinged in his head once again such as they had when Uthir said it. His mind was pulled toward the devastating thoughts of his failure in battle.

"I would've been about as useful as a stick in a coal mine." Arethor walked past his sister into her room, and laid down on her bed. It was just as stiff as he remembered. Naturally she insisted it was the best bed she'd ever slept on. "Besides, it wasn't my fault anyways. Judas damn near broke his leg off because a cat jumped out of a window." Perhaps it had just been his sleepiness, but he was pretty sure his sister was laughing at him. Jetting up from the bed, she stood with her back against the door and a hand covering her mouth.

"Judas is going to be the end of you, I figure. He's most likely going to ride you off a cliff someday because a cricket hopped on his hooves." She cackled some more to herself before finding a seat at her desk. Pulling a hairbrush free from her drawer, she began to stroke her knotted hair.

"Perhaps. But I'm home now, and so are you. But that does leave me with some questions." Arethor sat up straight at the edge of the bed, his feet sliding against the dusty floorboards. He had neglected to clean her room for the past few months.

Amber looked over her shoulder and blinked for him to continue. But he could tell from the twitch in her expression that she knew the question that was coming her way.

"How did you evade the contract?" He asked quickly, to which she responded even quicker.

"I didn't." She replied with a nervous smile. Arethor immediately palmed his face and sighed.

"Damnit, Amber! May The Endless devour you!"

"Ah, yes, that is what the contract said would happen if I left without a proper appeal. Gods, since when were you such a stickler for rules? Wasn't your whole job, like, doing whatever you wanted?" She picked at the hair stuck between the thistles, and chewed her inner cheek. But her shifting eyes were enough for Arethor to know that she felt worse about it than she was letting on.

"If they catch you they are going to kill you, Amber. And my duties had much more nuance than that. I had rules to follow, expectations to be met. If I didn't do what I was supposed to, the whole plan would fall apart and I'd be left to deal with the damage. And in this case, you'd be damaging me, Amber." His sister tried to ignore the hurt look her brother was giving her, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Groaning to herself, she stroked her hair once more before throwing the brush down.

"I'll speak to Otis, then. Get him to excuse me before the Mission makes its way here in a few weeks." She smiled, seemingly proud of her plan. Arethor had always had a sneaking suspicion that Amber and Otis had been more than just friends for a while, but he never quite had the proof. It wasn't his business, of course, but an older brother often wondered. Especially when she was all the family he had left. But Arethor and Otis had been friends for almost a decade now, and he knew that he would never do anything to hurt his sister. The other way around, though, he wasn't so sure.

"You better hope that works. I'm not letting them lay a finger on you." Arethor looked up through his hair, which was in desperate need of being washed. Much like the rest of him. Amber snickered, twirling her finger along the base of her desk to distract herself from her guilt.

"I'm sure it won't come to that, the second they see who my brother is, I doubt the Mission will bother doing a thing." She looked at Arethor with that sheepish gaze. She thought it worked on him but it most certainly didn't, it only made him realize she was trying to slip away from an argument. But as he often did, he let it slide anyway and simply nodded with pursed lips. She would use him as a scapegoat rather often, reminding people who threatened her that her big brother was a high ranking official in the Oak.

"Just get some sleep, I need a bath for Hyvales sake." Arethor went for the door.

"For all our sake, too." Amber teased as he shut the door behind him.